THE SECRET

By Shirley Hailstock

Stephanie Hunter’s calf muscles tighten as she went up on her tip-toes. Keeping her heels from clicking on the parquet flooring, she slipped into the back of the church. Fear and perspiration heated her skin despite the central air-conditioning. She swallowed, clamping down her rising heart beat. Stephanie had no invitation and irrationally expected the entire congregation to turn and stare at her for crashing a wedding. Only a single man standing near the back nodded appreciatively at her arrival. She smiled back and took the offered arm of the groomsman who walked toward her.

First Baptist was an old church, seasoned with stained glass windows and lemon polished pews. The faint aroma of the oil and the soft strands of organ music took Stephanie back to her childhood. The sanctuary was crowded. She listened to the hushed whisper of respectful voices as they waited for the wedding to commence.

“Bride or groom?” the man asked. It didn’t matter to her which side she sat on. She didn’t personally know either the bride or the groom.

“Groom,” she said decisively. At least her connection to Bradley Clayton was greater than to his intended wife. He was her brother, well almost-brother.

The church was beautifully dressed for a July wedding. Flowers perfumed the air. Pecan wood and light filtering through the cathedral-style windows gave the room a warm glow that made Stephanie wish the couple good luck in their future together. As the music rose, the guests continued to arrive and like a practiced dance, the tuxedo-clad groomsmen ferried them to their seats. Stephanie trained her gaze on the groom and his best man standing under the high arching sanctum. Dr. Bradley Clayton, formerly of Dallas, now residing in Philadelphia was nervously fingering his cuffs. He was good looking. Very good looking. In fact, he was gorgeous. The white tuxedo set off his dark skin enough that every woman in the audience would surely envy...she checked her program...Dr. Mallory Russell.

Two doctors, she thought. Dinner at their house would be in-depth discussions of operations and anatomy, something Stephanie’s nervous stomach couldn’t take. Next to Bradley stood another Clayton, Owen. He was equal to Bradley in looks. Taller by a couple of inches, with shoulders a football player would envy. Yet he didn’t have a football player’s build. He was tall and thin, his tuxedo fitting him as if it had been made for his body.

She admired the cut of it, thinking Owen Clayton could be a country gentleman in some costume drama, a businessman, or a beach bum and look equally at home. His hands were clasped together in front of him, but Stephanie thought he was hiding the fact that he was as nervous as his brother. Stephanie’s gaze rested on Owen for a long appraising moment. He wasn’t looking at her, yet her heart made a connection with him as it began to pound harder. Despite the nervousness and stress that weddings bring, Owen exuded a silent assurance, a confidence that would make him stand out no matter where he was. She’d never seen either man in person before today, but they were linked to her. And there were others.

Heads bobbed in front of her as a change in the music signaled the start of the processional. She looked around as groomsmen led two women down the aisle. One was in a wheelchair. The other walked. Mothers of the bride and groom, Stephanie thought and stretched her neck to see over the head bobbing and weaving in front of her. Which one was Devon Clayton?

Which one was her mother?

The bridesmaids and groomsmen started down the aisle. Stephanie matched up the names on her program with the faces that passed before her.

She’d scanned her own face in countless mirrors since she’d discovered her real identity. Today she wondered if she would see any resemblance of it in those that passed her on the way to the alter. Dean Clayton, a film maker. She’d found his photo on the Internet. He was younger than she by many years, a clean cut, good looking young man who could pose for the All-American boy poster. He had a bright smile and held the arm of his sister, model Rosa Clayton. Stephanie could turn a head if she wanted to, but she was nowhere near as model-beautiful as Rosa Clayton. Rosa elegantly glided down the aisle to the tune of I Believe I Can Fly. Stephanie hummed it softly, thinking what a beautiful song to begin life a together. A pang of jealousy went through her. It was unfair, she thought. Then she reminded herself that life was often unfair and these people had not cast her fate. That had been done by someone else, someone she had loved, would always love.

Mark and Luanne Rogers came next. She didn’t know who they were, but they had to be close friends to be included in a wedding party primarily comprised of Claytons. The last of the Claytons was James. Another gorgeous specimen. He ran a carpentry business and had married two years earlier. She’d heard one of the other groomsmen call him Digger. She supposed, for a carpenter, it was an appropriate moniker. The entire group, spread like a posed photograph across the front of the church, looked at the congregation, awaiting the bride. They were a beautiful family, tall, proud, happy. Stephanie was proud she could claim a small part in it as her own.

The strains of the wedding march cut through the hush of movement. Heads turned as the congregation stood and the back doors, which had been momentarily closed, opened with a flourish. Standing there in a white lace gown was the bride. Mallory Russell’s face, uncovered by a veil, shown with an inner glow that made her smile seem like a bright beam. A long white carpet was unrolled before her and a little girl of six or seven years dropped rose petals along it to the alter. The bride began a slow walk toward her groom. She was alone, smiling, holding her bouquet at waist level, but without anyone to give her away. A flash of empathy went through Stephanie’s mind. She wondered what had happened in Mallory Russell’s life that robbed her of a father or brother to escort her into the next phase of it. But Mallory’s expression disclosed no regret. Her attention was on the man waiting for her in the front of the church.

Stephanie envied her.

“She’s beautiful,” someone next to her whispered. Stephanie took her eyes off the bride to look at the woman who spoke.

“She is,” Stephanie said, surprised to find tears in her voice that had nothing to do with the ceremony. They were such a wonderful looking family. Were they really hers? After all these years had she finally found the place where she belonged?

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